


counterpoint.

by pilynator



Category: Mystic Messenger (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, gratuitous descriptions of food, it's hurty unrequited unexamined stuff anyway, just sad times for everyone, one joke at debussy's expense bc he is a nerd and deserves it, w a n g s t, you're v much encouraged to read this as jumin x v
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-20
Updated: 2018-08-20
Packaged: 2019-06-29 22:16:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,879
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15738411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilynator/pseuds/pilynator
Summary: Jumin and V share the world's most awkward meal. Rika is the spectre that haunts everything.This was supposed to be submitted for days 2 & 4 ||liesandlonelinessfor Mysme Angst Week, but I Am Very Late.





	counterpoint.

**Author's Note:**

> **Stuff!!**
> 
> This fic definitely leans heavily on the Jumin x V train, but it's subtle enough that I wouldn't necessarily count it as a shippy fic. Just keep that in mind.
> 
> I don't personally think V has any business listening to classical - that man has jazz written all over his face!! - but it's canon, so I can work with it. Jumin also forces you to listen to Debussy mid mental breakdown. I'll never forgive him for that, so this is partially his comeuppance for that one incident. Yes, I'm that petty. Anyway, I gave V a newfound fascination with _Rite of Spring_ because that would 100% appeal to his unhealthy ideals in life. He'd look at this girl dancing herself to death for the old gods and he'd file it under hashtag goals. Please love yourself more, V.
> 
> 0 canon basis for this, but there's a small bit about ballet and V's stepmother. Papa Kim sounds like the kind of person who'd talk a lot about the ~dancer body~ and would love another trophy wife, so I like to imagine Mrs. Kim #2 is an ex-ballet dancer. She's probably a nice lady, but things are awkward between her and V.
> 
> They're eating at Pierre Gagnaire. The menu is pieced together from whatever I could find online and a frangipane tart that I really wanted to have in there. I was...very hungry when I started writing this.
> 
> Okay, I think that's it! Long notes for once. I've edited as best as I could, but at one point you have to accept it's as good as it's gonna get lol. I sure hope this makes sense.
> 
> Enjoy~

V looked terrible. It was the first thing Jumin had noticed. Gaunt and pale and fading. It wasn’t just the dramatic weight loss, or the way he seemed even jumpier and more high strung than usual, but a generalised air of unhealthiness hanging in the air around him.

The second thing Jumin had noticed was that V hadn’t mentioned anything about feeling ill during their phone calls.

It _hurt_. Everything about this hurt and made his food stick painfully against his dry throat. Hands desperate to do something, _anything_ to take his mind of the horrible awkwardness hanging between them, Jumin reached for the glass of wine and washed down the mouthful of duck and walnuts he’d been struggling with.

‘How have you been, V?’

He let the stiff formality of that linger, daring to hope that his friend would catch on and tell him off for being so obtuse with his intentions. Jumin wanted V to pay attention, to smile and chide him again for hiding, but what ended up happening was that V stopped shredding the paper tissue in front of him for long enough to blink ( _once, twice_ ) and sheepishly lay both his hands flat on the table, palms down.

‘Sorry,’ he started. It was almost a chant these days. Everything V said would start and end with an apology. ‘I’m really sorry about not getting in touch, you must have been worried.’

He sounded genuinely apologetic. There were odd glimpses of the friend Jumin had known, but they were half-hidden, rippling gently across the other's face; they peeked and shied away whenever he would focus for too long on one spot, always slightly out of reach. Seeing that raw concern and sheepishness had broken some of the tension between them, though, and that was small blessing Jumin was all too happy for.

‘I’ve been travelling for too long. You know how it gets sometimes,’ V said. ‘I’m just completely spent, and there’s all these private events I have to take care of on top of working on my new collection, and, well…,’ he trailed off uncertainly.

One of his fingers had started tapping a rapid rhythm on the table and Jumin had to fight the urge to reach over and stop it; that would be too much, too fast, too invading. He didn’t want to overstep his bounds, didn’t want to scare V off, but he felt sick. Unsteady. There was only a table’s worth of distance between them and yet he was getting vertigo. The tapping was an odd rhythm, something hauntingly familiar, but broken. Too complicated to be reduced to one instrument, too loud to translate well in the noise of the restaurant.

Distantly, like he was watching someone else go through the motions, Jumin saw his hands gripping the fork until it left indents in his skin. His meal felt less and less appetising by the minute. Cured duck with walnuts and pear, something his father had recommended. It felt leaden and ashy in his mouth, much like a full stop. Here: the end of something.

He looked up, hoping to meet V’s eyes, but found them looking at the fixtures on the wall.

‘I’m sorry too,’ Jumin said. Not a lie, but not true either. He wasn’t sorry. He was _scared_ , scared for and by V. It was a bitter taste, eager to join the duck. Something deserving of a more sombre setting than their favourite restaurant. ‘I was so insistent on getting to see you, but I never even thought to ask if you were feeling up for it. I’m afraid I’m a very selfish friend.’

‘Don’t say that.'  V’s voice was soft, and he was finally looking him in the eye. 'Don’t ever say that. You’re my closest friend, I _wanted_ to see you.’

The tapping had stopped for a brief moment but picked up again the second V found whatever stray thought he’d been struggling to articulate.

‘I’m the selfish friend here.’

‘That’s not true.’

_Tap tap tap tap taptaptaptaptap_

‘Jumin, you were always too kind for your own good,‘ a smile, a laugh, ‘let me shoulder some of the blame this time around.’

V was smiling, but there was nothing funny about this. At least, nothing that Jumin would find amusing about that statement. He tried to allow some room for some of the nuance he always seem to miss in conversations, but it still left him unnerved and with a hollow feeling in his chest.

‘You can’t shoulder the blame if you’ve done nothing wrong.’

It seemed to be the wrong thing to say. V looked even more distant than he’d been at the start, hunched over his dinner, fragmented by the light sources in the room. Caught between the pleasant yellow gleam of the restaurant lamps, the neon haze of the city and the candle between them, V was translucent. Wavering.

‘Like I’ve said, Jumin. Too kind.’

The wine was sweet and cloying, his father’s choice again. Something indulgent. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise to Jumin, but he hummed a note of discontent anyway. V was making him feel nauseous and the flavour selection wasn’t helping, his taste buds struggling to find a point of tension in the meal. Something sharp to bring out the potential in it.

V didn’t seem willing to elaborate on that last point and Jumin was not sure how to ask. They went through the rest of their food in a meticulous crawl. Neither of them had any appetite for the mains.

‘How’s your meal?’ Jumin tried again, grasping at any thread of conversation that wouldn’t make V clam up. ‘You seem to be savouring it.’

A filthy trick. He hates himself for the cheap bait, but hates himself even more when V fails to take it.

‘It’s incredible.’

The oxtail was shredded beyond all recognition on V’s plate, a victim to his newly found habit of constantly moving around. He made a show of taking another mouthful and Jumin did not miss the way the fork clattered against his teeth. It made a low, dull noise, back and forth against V’s teeth in a shaky trajectory, sending an unpleasant shiver down Jumin’s spine. The trembling had been less obvious before, when he had been busy with his stripped-down orchestration, but it was unmistakable now that V was attempting more complicated movements.

‘Is the stress manageable?’ Jumin said, eventually. ‘I know how hard it can hit your body. I can recommend you a doctor, if you’d like, to advise you on how to adjust your lifestyle to a busier schedule. He’s supposed to be the best in this area of expertise, my father swears by him.’

Under different circumstances, he might have felt ashamed at the pleading note he let slip through. It was too late now. He knew what was coming next anyway; it was hard to mistake that guarded expression for anything other than a polite rejection.

‘I wouldn’t want to bother you with this.’

_It’s not a bother_ was entombed in his mouth, drowned in wine. V was nothing if not gentle, and that hurt the most. It left too many things unanswered, too many ambiguities.

_You wouldn’t bother me_ and _not you_ and _please don’t do this to me_ joined their predecessor, only to dry out and rot under the incandescent assault of V’s politeness. Jumin was out of his depth, but depth was all V had ever known. Jumin felt like kindling.

He tried again.

‘I understand. Let me know if you change your mind.’

Jumin had only been hunting once, and it had been enough. It had been hard to refuse, it was the preferred past time one of his father’s business partners, after all, but it was not an experience he wanted to repeat any time soon. This felt like that had.

One: like witnessing the feathery retreat of something beautiful, like he was intruding on some unspoken boundary just by existing in a space, like he was measured and found lacking.

Two: like he was about to take part in something horrible.

‘Thank you, Jumin. I will.’

A lie.

Blood and wine made for good business. Jumin wondered who the sacrifice was between the two of them. He wished V would shout at him, or at least tell him outright that he wanted space. These half words left him with nothing to grip, no foundation to build on.

It hurt and yet it didn’t. It had grown so large in his chest that it _was_ his chest. It was his arms, his legs, the room. It couldn’t be called a hurt if it was all he could feel. There was no fault line between that quiet dismissal and the Jumin who still had his daily life to go through. He’d wake up tomorrow and work on the next acquisition contract in the pipeline, and worry about board meetings, and go home to add the finishing touches to a pitch, and he’d do all that with this river stone in his throat.

‘I know you will.’

Not a lie, but not a truth either. Jumin didn’t know much of anything anymore. On a whim, he decided to poke at that wound, explore the rift between them like children tear at their scabs. V had always been a known variable, someone he could understand intimately with no words needed, and yet here they were, struggling to have a conversation. Jumin grasped at the first thing that caught his attention, interested to see just how much he could misinterpret his friend.

‘That song you keep tapping, what is it?’

‘Hmm?’ V looked down at the table, looking surprised to find anything going on there. ‘Oh, I’m sorry, I didn’t even realise I was doing this.’ The hands disappeared from view, probably to rest on V’s lap.  Jumin liked to imagine them still fidgeting, something stable to cling to in this ever-changing array of habits. The tapping had been new, the lack of appetite was also new. Something was carving out new riverbeds in V’s territory, disconcerting new landmarks that Jumin was struggling to navigate.

‘No need to apologise,’ he said, ‘it just seemed…familiar. It’s been on the tip of my tongue the whole time.’

V’s laugh was dry, like it was trying to anchor itself in his throat.

‘Stravinsky. I’ve been listening to those recordings you gave me for my eighteenth,’ he said. ‘You probably couldn’t recognise it because it’s not meant for a one-man orchestra. I’ve –‘ V hesitated, toying with his wine glass, ‘– I’ve been revisting a lot of things lately.’

That was the sole truth of the night. Jumin cherished its rawness and how its beating heart bled between them. Something animal-shy blossomed in his mouth.

‘ _Firebird_?’ He’d never much cared for Stravinsky, preferred more subdued compositions, but if he had to pick something it would be that. Jumin tried to ignore how needy that sounded even to himself, that craving for recognition in foreign territory. To be seen in the things someone cherishes, to exist in perpetuity as an object of affection.

V took a long sip before committing to an answer.

‘No. _Rite of Spring_.’

A shadow moved under the waves. Jumin felt the tension in his core before he even understood it – the silence before a predator.

‘That’s…quite a heavy soundtrack for an afternoon,’ he finally said, measuring his words. He couldn’t explain it, but something about that choice left a cold icy trail down his spine. It was the wrong answer without Jumin having even been aware there was a correct answer.

‘It is, it’s exhausting,’ V said, ‘but it’s important.’ His skin was burning where the candlelight hit it, bathed in a glow that seem to irradiate from within.

‘Have you spoken to your father recently, by any chance?’ Jumin had blurted it out without thinking, and he hesitated. It might have been one step too far.

V’s expression didn’t change, but it was clear from the way his fingers twitched that something about those words had done _something_ for his mood. He pushed his plate further away, signaling that he was done with it, and Jumin followed.

‘What makes you say that?’ V’s tone was cautious, like he was afraid of what the answer might be. ‘Shall we get dessert, by the way? I’m quite full.’

Jumin’s eyes scanned the visible half of V’s body, lingered briefly on every jutting bones and sharp angles, before attempting to stare him down. V flushed in response but refused to back down. He’d started stubbornly flipping the menu to the dessert section when Jumin finally broke down and verbalised his concerns.

‘If that’s the case, then I’m worried for you. I know it’s not polite, but as your friend, I have to tell you: you look ill. I doubt you’ve been eating properly.’ Jumin paused, feeling ashamed at how soothed he felt seeing V’s blush get even angrier. It wasn’t fair, and yet it meant that he could still count on something in his friend. ‘I can recommend you a nutritionist?’ It was a question, small and wavering. Jumin hadn’t ever felt as useless as tonight, unable to get one clear answer out of one of the few people he cared for, and yet he couldn’t stop from offering help he knew would be rejected.

V’s expression softened.

‘Thank you, I’ll…consider it.’ Jumin’s gaze snapped up in shock and caught the afterimage of V’s furtive smile. ‘You’re right, I haven’t been in top shape recently. There’s a lot of things I have to consider right now,’ he said, but rushed ahead before Jumin could ask more about them, ‘and I’d be grateful for your help. Send me the contact details and I’ll get in touch.’

Jumin nodded numbly, unsure of what to say next. _Thank you_ hung heavily in the air, jagged and harsh. _Thank you_ was inadequate, even more proof of how much the relationship had degenerated; something of the cold pleasantries of business relationships, something of a suffocating desperation, neither appropriate.

‘I’ll email you tonight,’ he said. It was the only thing Jumin could think of that would not betray him.

They placed their dessert orders quickly, eager to get to something a bit more enjoyable after the crushing gravitas of the mains. Jumin had taken the longest to decide, feeling a bit lost at the new menu. It was always a shock; no matter how much he could prep himself for returning after a lengthy absence, seeing the changes in options left him reeling, unable to ground himself and make a choice.

‘I recommend the almonds,’ V had prompted, kindly, worriedly, leaning over in his direction. It left his mouth dry, an indiscernible emotion choking Jumin out on the spot. He followed his advice, going for a frangipane and fig tart – something bittersweet for the longing in his bones. V smiled and the feeling in Jumin’s throat grew, pushing against the constricting walls of his throat. It passed quickly, though, only to be replaced by uncertainty.

‘Jumin?’ V said. ‘Why did you ask me about my father?’

Jumin bit his lip, trying to organise his thoughts. It wasn’t easy. He wanted to lie and tell him that he’d simply wanted to hope that was true, that he wished V the best and thought he should make an effort to talk to his family, but that wasn’t exactly true. It hadn’t been the cause, but an afterthought, a logical jump.

‘The ballet,’ he started softly, treading lightly so as to not scare V off. ‘You said you were considering things and you look worn out. Then you mentioned _Rite of Spring_ and, well…,’ Jumin trailed off, unsure of how to conclude that thought. ‘I was wondering if it had something to do with your stepmother?’

Wrong thing to say. V’s dessert fork screeched painfully against the china and several of the people around them turned around to glare, but he didn’t notice. He was too preoccupied with staring unblinkingly at his fraisier cake.

‘No,’ V said in the end, ‘no, I haven’t spoken to my father in a while. He doesn’t know I’m in town.’ He hesitated, chasing a strawberry around with his fork without looking at it. It went on for so long Jumin considered reaching out and stabbing the damn thing for him. When he did speak, V’s voice was low and distant; he sounded afraid. ‘I’d like to keep it that way.’

Jumin gripped his fork more tightly, willing some feeling back into his extremities. He felt the wispy presence of the memory-deer again; the tension in V’s body was making him look even thinner, more easily startled. One more wrong move and he’d be gone. Or maybe not V, but whatever V Jumin had been dealing with so far. Something even more distorted and foreign might take his place, someone Jumin could never reach.

He didn’t voice his actual thoughts. It was becoming something of a habit by now, even if it felt wrong and abrasive to do so around V. Parts of Jumin were being sandpapered off again, letting the pink rawness of his inadequacy shine through. It hurt some more, in a dull and throbbing kind of way, like the thudding emptiness were a tooth used to sit. He could replace the things he’d lost, but it wouldn’t be the same.

‘I don’t think running away will do you any good, but I’ll respect your wishes.’ He tried not to let his disapproval shine through, he really did, but V flinched away anyway. He’d been doing that sporadically throughout the meal, recoiling from certain comments like he was an open nerve instead of a full person. ‘However, I’m sure he’ll understand your needs better if you just talk to him.’

‘That’s a kind thought,’ V said. There was a wistful quality to it, something tender and newborn caught between each breath he took. Jumin stared openly, realised his rudeness, and tried to cover it up by taking another violent swig of his wine. It had an unusual fruity bouquet, lychee and grapefruit, which didn’t match his dessert. He tried not to make a face and draw even more attention to himself, too afraid to break V’s concentration.

V had noticed something was up, though. He looked up and tried to cover a smile.

‘Is the wine too sweet?’

‘Too summery,’ Jumin said, aware of the heat rising to his face. He didn’t blush easily, but he was acutely feeling his embarrassment at having been caught.

‘Not the most fortunate combination,’ V said, the smallest hint of teasing in the tilt of his head.

‘It’s fine,’ Jumin said, hurrying to divert attention. He felt the knot in his head give a little tug, another complicated thread adding its weight to the cacophony of emotion. He was fine with letting this one be, at least for the moment. Jumin had the distinct feeling that something uncomfortable was waiting at the other end. ‘I meant what I’ve just said you know,’ he said instead, ‘your father isn’t a mind reader. He won’t know what’s upsetting to you if you don’t talk to him.’

V’s smile vanished, but the tilt didn’t go away. He seemed thoughtful.

‘Is this how it is with you and your father?’

‘Yes.’

Jumin’s voice hadn’t trembled, but he faltered immediately afterwards. It rang hollow, even to him. Not a lie. Not a truth. Something clay-footed and wavering which he believed in, and the treacherous thought that you didn’t need to believe in something true whirling underneath. He cleared his voice.

‘You can’t understand someone completely, but you can try to communicate,’ he said. That one felt better. Solid. Words you could hope to follow through. ‘I’m not going to force this on you, but I think your father is looking forward to seeing you.’

V made a small humming noise and took his own dignified sip.

‘I think true communication should be more than that,’ he said, chewing thoughtfully on one of the strawberries. Jumin saw a flash of red peek through and found his thoughts drifting back to the deer. Blood and wine, if kinder. It made for good business. No deal without a sacrifice.

V carried on, more animated now. He’d started making small movements with his hands, wavering shapes in the air that Jumin knew would hint at some unfurling interior drama.

‘You said that you can’t understand someone completely, but I find that sad. The world has to have more to offer than that. I’d like to believe that you can know everything there is to know about a person, no words needed, that you could just look at them and _see_ ,’ he punctuated the last word by stabbing his fork gently at the air.

The words were spoken lightly, but they hurt all the same. Jumin felt the air leave his lungs on impact, the pain radiating softly outwards from his ribcage like a blooming flower. All he did was nod and ignore the almost childish carelessness with which V had crushed his hopes at rekindling the closeness they’d once shared. It was worthwhile, at least, to have confirmation that he was not being _seen_ in this moment.

‘I’ll admit, I don’t see that as a possibility,’ Jumin said, words clumsy in his mouth. There were too many consonants in there, too many obstacles to overcome. ‘You were always the artist, though. Maybe you can see something I can’t.’

V looked momentarily startled.

‘I don’t think that’s an artist idea,’ he said, shyly. ‘That would be arrogant. In fact, I think it might be hindering me.’ He paused. ‘Rika says I think too much.’

Jumin accidentally bit his tongue trying to eat the dessert, blood mixing in with the bitterness of the almonds. He found the pressure point, the fault line, the contrasting flavour to break apart the monotony.

‘I’ve met with her recently,’ he said, trying to sound indifferent.

‘Oh?’ V looked uncertain. He’d hunched his shoulders again, making himself small. If he didn’t know any better, Jumin might have thought that he was ashamed of something. ‘How was she?’

In a different time, Jumin might have found that odd, but he was currently too busy figuring out what he was going to say next. Guilt hung heavy around his neck, making him stare at his plate instead of meeting V’s worried gaze. It was like drowning on land.

‘She seemed…distraught.’ The mermaid question: half fish or half human? Which one was this, a lie with some truth to it, or a truth strangled by a lie? Jumin tried to remember and didn’t like the shape of what he saw: Rika had been calm, but eerie, hand on his, eyes bright. He’d felt her pulse through his skin, a steady thumping against his own erratic heartbeat. She’d always exuded an air of otherworldliness, the feeling that she knew more than she let on, but that meeting had been Rika at her most perplexing.

V looked like he had been stabbed: pupils shrunken down to a pinpoint of fear, skin covered in a sheen of sweat. He started swirling his wine glass around; it was a nervous habit he’d picked up from his father, even if V himself didn’t seem to be aware of it.

‘What did she say?’

‘She was worried about you.’ _If I met you_ _before…_ ‘She wanted me to check up on you.’

V slumped a bit in his chair, all the tension gone from his body. It looked like whatever nervous energy had possessed him merely seconds ago had served as his support beam and without it, V was left boneless and weak, sprawled on the luxurious plush of the furniture.

‘She’s too kind,’ he said, taking another sip, ‘and takes in so much of other people’s concerns. Sometimes I think I don’t deserve her.’

‘Don’t ever say that.’

It came out harsh, way harsher than Jumin had wanted it to, but V didn’t seem to notice. A slight raise of his eyebrows was the only indication that he’d even heard the outburst.

‘Don’t say that,’ Jumin said, but quieter this time, ‘don’t ever think that you’re not good enough. Rika loves you. She loves you –‘ _I want this to be true,_ Jumin realised ‘– and you two are engaged, and whatever troubles you think you have now will seem like nothing in a year’s time.’ Once again, with feeling: ‘She loves you, V.’

_I want this to be true because something horrible might happen if it’s not,_ Jumin thought. It was irrational, the worst magical thinking had to offer, and yet he felt it in his core, this hydra of certainty. No matter how much he tried to tell himself that it was illogical, it sprung another head and coiled tighter around his chest. Rika loved V, and Jumin loved both, and V…

V cared for Jumin. A horrible, chopped up concession to the loss of their intimacy, but it would have to suffice. And Rika _had_ to love V.

V’s eyes were shining. It might have been unshed tears, or perhaps one of the many light sources around them, or even some of that unearthly internal glow of his. It didn’t matter, really, just that he was overcome with _something_ , and whatever that was, it made Jumin’s heart break. When V spoke up again, it was playful – a sharp contrast with his face.

‘I’ve been listening to Stravinsky for nothing,’ he laughed, ‘when all I should have done was ask you. Thank you, you always know what to say.’

V finished his dessert in silence, but Jumin was too tense to do anything much other than wait for the moment to pass.

‘You know,’ V was the first to start the conversation again, herding the rest of the crème pâtissière in a nice, smooth line down the middle of his plate, ‘I’ve been thinking about my mother a lot lately.’

Ah. This was familiar ground, but wild and untamed. Jumin was never sure what the appropriate thing to say when V got like this, so he chose to stay quiet and for a hint of where this conversation was going.

‘I suppose listening to classical hasn’t been helping with that,’ V said, smiling wryly. There was a surprising bite to his tone, a harsh ridge of reproach that broke its surface. ‘I really should know better. Stravinsky always makes me sad.’

‘I’ll gift you something more cheerful then,’ was all Jumin could think to say. ‘Debussy? I have a Haitink recording you might like.’

‘No, no, that’s alright,’ V said. He seemed amused. ‘Stravinsky makes me sad, but Debussy puts me to sleep.’ He laughed again at the face Jumin made. ‘I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that! He’s just not my idea of fun.’

‘And what would that be?’

V’s grin only got wider.

‘Ravel.’

‘Now I just know you’re just messing with me,’ Jumin frowned. His suspicions were confirmed when V laughed again.

‘Sorry, you caught me. I guess my idea of fun is teasing you.’

Jumin’s face felt uncomfortably hot for the second time that evening. He could only hope that whatever blush had crawled out of hiding could be confused for the faint aura of his wine.

‘I’m glad to see you happier,’ he finally said. Another truth, vulnerable and exposed, unfolding gently under V’s watchful eyes. ‘I’m also worried for you.’

‘Thank you,’ V said. ‘I wish you weren’t, but thank you.’

They were silent for a while, interrupted only by the silky shuffling of the waiters collecting the remnants of their meal. Jumin felt full and sleepy, and suddenly thankful for the dependable presence of driver Kim in his life. V, on the other hand, had spent the last couple of minutes picking at the threads in the tablecloth.

‘I’d like to understand her, if I can. I’d like to know her completely.’

He’d said it so quietly Jumin wasn’t even sure he’d heard it right.

‘Pardon?’

‘Sorry,’ V said, jaw set in an odd line, ‘I was still thinking about Stravinsky.’

Jumin frowned, trying to reorient himself in the conversation

‘Is this about your mother?’

‘No,’ V’s voice was small, like he was sharing some horrible revelation. Jumin found himself leaning in, trying to hear better above the noise.

‘The girl, then? The sacrifice?’

He didn’t miss the pause before V’s answer. It stretched on for longer than it should have, several beats off mark, and had the markings of a haunting: a drop in temperature, a sense of wrongness.

‘Yes.’

It felt significant. Weighty. V raised the rest of his glass, now refilled. He was still split right down the middle between the golden light of the restaurant and his own shadows. ‘I’ve missed our chats,’ his voice was full and amber, with a hint of toasted almonds. A sophisticated bouquet. Jumin caught that unfortunate train of thought before it stopped anywhere significant and was startled to realise just how tipsy he was. ‘A toast to our friendship?’

‘To our friendship,’ Jumin agreed.

They clinked their glasses together and sipped at the same time. The pain was cloying, sweet with a hint of summer fruit.

**Author's Note:**

> This fic might be possessed by something, because it sapped my life force for two weeks straight and put me to sleep whenever I'd start working on it. It's finally done, But At What Cost? (my sanity)


End file.
